Mariana's Knight

by W. Michael Farmer

  I leaned out of the buggy and gave her a final good-bye kiss and a couple of comforting pats on the back. She smiled, hugged me, and said, “Adios, Enrique. Mama loves you, and we’ll miss you. Have a good time. Make Daddy come back home as soon as he can, and you two stay warm, or you’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “Yes’m. We’ll be back soon.” Daddy clucked to Buck and Sergeant, made a little slap with the reins, and we were off into the wind and down the street at a fast trot. Most of the ride between Las Cruces and the mountains was so gentle I couldn’t feel we were climbing, even in a horse and buggy, until we got to the climb past Organ village, but then the horses started pulling hard, and the going was slow up that grade. The wind made us huddle up close and hunker down under the blanket. Daddy kept the horses stepping along, and he cracked little jokes about how cold it was, such as, “Son it’s colder than a well digger’s rear on Halloween night in the Yukon.” His jokes made me laugh aloud in the pure joy of getting to take a trip with him, and he laughed with me.

  We stopped in San Agustin Pass at about five o’clock. The shadows were long from the setting sun. It was much colder and windier up there than it had been in the valley. We camped behind some boulders that were close to a little spring to get out of the wind. It was like having a nest on top of the world. The view of the valley and the road back toward Las Cruces stretched forever in the last light from the sun falling behind the Florida Mountains on the edge of the world far to the west. We could see a few lights down in Organ, and, later, when it was pitch black, we could see a dim glow out of the valley and points of light from the streetlights in Las Cruces and Mesilla.

  Daddy fed and watered the horses and put me to work gathering up brush we could burn for a fire. He was particular about his animals. They were skittish that evening, hard to handle in getting them out of harness and rubbing them down, and I think now they probably smelled a big cat or a bear.

  Daddy led them to water at a little pool fed by a slow spring leaking out of the boulders below us. Then he tied them to picket stakes out of the wind and fed them. Finally, we got to eat that nice basket supper Marta had fixed for us. I was starving and the taste of steak, fresh-baked bread, and hot coffee filled my mouth with pleasure after bouncing around in the wind on a cold buggy seat half the day.

  While we ate, I got Daddy to tell me a story or two about his Indian fights. When we finished, it was fully dark, and the stars were out. We built up the fire and rolled up together in the buffalo robe right next to it. Daddy kept the Winchester within easy reach, and checked the load in his Schofield pistol before putting it under the blanket he used for a pillow.

  “Best get some sleep, now, little man,” he said, and I snuggled in close to him. It was the first time I had spent an evening with Daddy sleeping on the trail. Of course, I had slept out with my brothers Tom, Jack, and Albert on some of their jaunts over to ranches or hunting. I knew what to expect, but, even so, I had a hard time getting to sleep and wiggled around some. Then the warmth of his body and the hot glow from the fire had me sleeping as well as I did in my own bed at home.

  The next morning, Daddy was up before dawn. He broke up some kindling and soon built up the fire from the coals that survived the night. He let me stay wrapped in the buffalo robe watching him in the weak light of the coming dawn. After he had a nice fire going, he told me to roll out and get ready to go. Then he filled the grain buckets for the horses and walked around the boulders to where they had been staked. Much quicker than I expected, he came stomping back, cursing under his breath. He looked mad enough to bite the head off a grizzly bear.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “The horses are gone. Somehow they pulled out their picket stakes and took off.” I went to look for myself, came back, and found Daddy muttering to himself as he took a slow walk around the camp trying to figure out where they had gone. I followed him, and we could see their tracks led back down toward Las Cruces. Although we couldn’t find any other tracks, Daddy said he was certain some varmint had scared them off. After that, he didn’t say much as he dug in the supplies and fixed us a little breakfast.

  I was just about in tears. The only options I thought we had were to walk back home or hope somebody would come along and help us. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to walk all the way back to Las Cruces in the cold, and I was too heavy for Daddy to carry. Daddy and I looked down the road from both sides of the pass, but we didn’t see a soul or any animals moving for miles. I sniffled over the hot bread and coffee, trying not to cry, and said, “Daddy, what are we gonna do?”

  He flashed one of the most confident grins I’ve ever seen and said, “There’s not much we can do, Henry. I can tell the horses are headed back to town. I figure they’ll wander into the stable for feed sometime this afternoon at the latest. Somebody at home will find them and figure out something has happened for them to get away from us like that. They’ll probably bring them back here within a day or two, but if they don’t, we’ll just catch the mail wagon back in four or five days.”

  Hearing that changed my attitude. I realized I had at least a day or two to play up high in the mountains. What a stroke of luck, I thought. Daddy might let me shoot the rifle, too.

  I scouted around and found a long, straight yucca stalk for my rifle, and then I spent most of the day either playing hunter or hiding behind rocks around camp pretending to be an Indian fighter. I’ll bet I killed a thousand redskins, and they got me a few times with their arrows.

  Daddy got out his legal papers from the old, red trunk, and, sitting on a rock next to the fire, spent most of the day reviewing evidence and making final preparations for his presentation to the grand jury.

  We bundled up again after supper and slept sound and warm until about midnight when the scream of a mountain lion woke us up and made every hair on my head stand straight out. Daddy opened one eye, gave a big yawn, and said, “Go back to sleep, Henry. Don’t be afraid. It’s just an animal. Men are ten times worse than some hungry cat. Why, if that cat comes around, we’ll give him a new eye in his backside with the Winchester. Just like you said, we’ll skin him up and have us a new rug for your mama.” I faked a yawn and forced myself to be still. I finally got off to sleep again, but it took a while.

  At mid-afternoon the next day, Daddy walked out to the road and looked down the pass toward Organ and Las Cruces. He was gone so long I walked out to the road looking for him. He was there, sitting on a boulder in the sunshine. He pointed to tiny figures on horses plodding up the road each leading a horse and said, “That’s Albert and his father-in-law, Antonio García. They’ll be here in about an hour, and they have Sergeant and Buck with them. Let’s go get the Dutch oven and cook us a good supper.”

  Sure enough, Albert and Señor García showed up in about an hour. Boy, was I glad to see them, and so was Daddy. Albert rode up to the fire with a big grin on his face and gave a smart military salute, which Daddy returned. He said, “Pa, you and Henry had us all worried to death when Sergeant and Buck showed up at the barn. Mama and Maggie thought somebody had attacked you. But I told them the horses probably just ran away and you needed them back, and, as you see, here they are. Mama had me bring you some more food, too. Antonio wanted to come with me, said he hadn’t been up in the pass in a long time, and I was sure happy to have his company.”

  Daddy shook hands with Señor García saying, “Antonio, I much appreciate you coming way out here with Albert. I know he was glad for the company.”

  The old man grinned under his big sombrero and said, “De nada, it is nothing, Alberto. It is a good thing to find you so easy.”

  Daddy, showing nothing but teeth under his mustache, said, “Albert, I sure raised you right. You figured it out exactly like I thought you would. Gentlemen, climb down and tie those horses to the buggy wheel. I’ll feed them. Henry, you get the plates, and we’ll eat in a little bit. I can feel my backbone rubbing my navel.”

  While we ate, Daddy leaned back against a boulder and ta
lked a while with Señor García about a land dispute arising from local politics. There was a long pause in the conversation while the coffeepot was passed around for refills, then Daddy said, “Albert, it’s clear to me that it was foolish to bring Henry along on this trip. I want you to take him back home with you, and I’ll go on alone.”

  Señor García frowned and Albert just stared at Daddy, his mouth half full of beans and biscuits. He stopped chewing, swallowed, then looked at the ground and shook his head. At first, I could hardly believe he did this because it was forbidden for us to argue with our parents. My older siblings could get away with arguing a little with Mama, but when Daddy told us to do something, it had better be “Yes, sir!” or we could expect a quick trip to the woodshed. However, Albert was a grown man, and I could tell he’d try to rebut Daddy’s order.

  “Pa, why would you want to do that? Henry seems to be doing just fine, and I thought you agreed with Mama and Maggie that you’d be safer if he came along.”

  Daddy pulled two cigars out of his coat pocket, gave one to Señor García, lighted them, and then fixing Albert with a hard stare that would have scared me, said, “Albert, you’re not to argue with me again. Do you understand? This had best be the last time it happens. I’ll let you off this time because you were so prescient in bringing the horses back to us as quick as you did. However, this is a trail, not some eastern highway. If something happens to the horses or buggy out in the desert, or if we get attacked, Henry’s just not strong or mature enough yet to survive. I don’t want him hurt.”

  I blurted out, “Daddy, please don’t send me back. I can survive in the desert. Albert and Jack’s told me all about what to do. Please, Daddy.”

  Albert said, “Henry’s right, Pa. He does fine when we play hideout in the desert. He nearly always finds me after I’ve ridden off and hidden from him.” What he said was true. Playing hideout was the same as playing hide-and-seek, except the players ranged over much larger areas using horses, and I was good at it.

  Albert continued, “He’s a good shot with the Winchester, too, even if he is just a little kid. Mama and Maggie want him with you, Pa, and I think you owe it to the women to keep Henry with you so their minds will be at ease.”

  Señor García, blowing a puff of his cigar into the still air, said nothing but nodded he agreed with Albert.

  Daddy stared at Albert for a moment, then just threw his arms up and said, “Oh, all right. Henry can stay. But this sure as hell is against my better judgment.” Then he turned to me and said, “You and Albert clean up the dishes here, and I’ll look after the horses. They’re not getting out of here tonight.”

  We had a good time sitting around the fire that evening with Señor García telling us about hunting cats and bears in the mountains and Daddy telling us stories about his days down in Texas and joking with us. It got late, and Albert and Señor García laid out their bedrolls across from us as Daddy and I crawled under the buffalo robe again beside the fire. We all slept peacefully, but it was cold up there, even out of the wind.

  Daddy was up before dawn, building up the fire, making coffee, packing up the buggy, and harnessing the horses. Unlike the morning before, he said, “Get out of that robe, Henry. We’ve got to get ready to roll down this mountain. There’s a long day’s ride in front of us. Pick up your stuff now, and get it ready for packing.”

  After some hot coffee and hard bread left over from supper, Albert hugged me and said, “So long, Henry. I know you’re going to have fun. Bring Daddy back safe.”

  I stood as tall and straight as I could and said, “Don’t worry, Albert. I’ll bring Daddy back safe and sound.”

  Albert and Señor García shook hands with Daddy. Albert said, “Be careful, Pa. There are some bad hombres down in that basin.” Señor García frowned and nodded in agreement. Albert continued, “We’ll tell Mama that you and Henry are getting along just fine.”

  Daddy nodded at Señor García and hugged Albert, slapping him on the back a couple of times. Then Albert and Señor García saddled their horses and started back down the pass toward Las Cruces. Daddy and I packed up the buggy and started rolling down the other side of the pass as the sun began to rise, casting orange and red light that bathed the desert in soft purple shadows.

  CHAPTER 3

  El Tigré

  I was glad to get down the Tularosa side of the pass and watch Daddy drive the horses. It was so cold that, as the morning came on, I began to wish Albert and I hadn’t talked Daddy out of sending me home. My lips and cheeks were chapped. My eyes watered from the cold, and my feet were so numb I kept a steady rhythm tapping them on the wagon floor just to be sure they were still attached. Even so, I didn’t dare complain after begging Daddy to keep me with him. The sun finally warmed things up a little.

  After we rode for a while, Daddy decided I needed to learn to drive the wagon. He showed me how to hold the reins and coached me on the kind of commanding voice to use when telling the team gee, haw, or whoa. He put the reins in my hands, then wrapped his arms around me and covered my hands with his. He guided me along that way for a little while as he continued to let Buck and Sergeant step along in a fast walk that ate up the miles. When we got to a long, straight stretch of ruts down in the flats, he released my hands and sat back with his arms crossed.

  As I drove, he kept telling me, “Sit up straight, Henry. Just relax, son, and let the horses do the work.” Often, he’d ask, “Are you tired yet, Henry? Want me to take the reins?”

  I’d shake my head and say, “No, sir, I’ve got ’em.” Somehow, I managed to drive the wagon for nearly an hour before my shoulders started to cramp so badly I became afraid I’d drop the reins. At that point, I handed Daddy the reins but asked, “Can I drive some more later on?”

  He roared a big, strong laugh, but I barely heard him because the wind started gusting and stole it away. He said, “Henry, you’re going to be a first-class wagoner. I’ll let you practice some more after lunch.”

  We rode along, making jokes again about how cold the wind was. Figuring he was in a good mood and wouldn’t turn me down, I begged him to tell me his El Tigré story. El Tigré was a bad outlaw who had sworn to kill Daddy after Daddy’s posse broke up the Kinney gang and killed one of his amigos in Rincon. I knew he’d already told my brothers that story, but I hadn’t heard much of it.

  At first, Daddy told me I was too young to hear about all that fighting, but I kept begging him to tell it. Finally, I said, “Please, Daddy. I promise I’ll never tell Mama you told me.” Apparently, that was the dealmaker.

  “Well, Henry,” he said, smiling, “when the posse and I ambushed the Kinney Gang in Rincon, there was a big shoot-out. Lots of bullets were fired on both sides. However, the boys and I caught ’em with their britches down. We managed to kill most of the gang, and only one of our men was even wounded. Element of surprise, I guess. They just didn’t believe we could travel that far that fast and get ahead of them. Just like old Nathan Bedford Forrest used to say in the Civil War, ‘Git thar fustest with the mostest,’ and we did, too. Why, they were planning to ambush us in Rincon themselves. Hard work to surprise your enemy always pays, Henry. Don’t forget that.”

  He looked over at me as if checking to see if I’d taken his words to heart. I nodded and said, “Tell me more about what happened after you got to Rincon.”

  Daddy took in a big breath, let it out, and said, “I was lucky. I shot and killed Kinney’s right-hand man, Doroteo Saenz, just as he was about to shoot Israel Santos. But then one of the meaner bastards, El Tigré, got away.”

  I almost never heard Daddy use profanity, so I understood right then that he had absolutely no use for El Tigré. Daddy continued, “I figured he must have slipped off and hidden in the Bosque along the Rio Grande until he got close to El Paso and then rode across the river into Mexico. I decided I’d be patient and wait for him to come back, I knew he would, and then I’d nail his tail, and that would be the last of the Kinney gang.”

  “How
long did you have to wait?” I asked.

  “A couple of months. I was working in my office with the windows open to the street, enjoying the nice air around harvest time and the sounds of nighttime coming. Then José Padilla came in. I think you’ve met him before. Do you remember him?”

  Again, I nodded as a vague image of a middle-aged Mexican man came to my mind. Daddy said, “José rode with me in the early days and was one of the best trackers I knew. When he came into my office, I looked up, realized he was in bad shape, and jumped up to help him. His nose looked like it was broken. His face was covered with bruises; his right eye was swollen shut, and his left arm was wrapped in splints.”

  “Who beat him up?” I asked, eager to hear the rest of the story.

  Daddy smiled and said, “Patience, boy, I’m getting to that. I said, ‘Good God, man. What’s happened to you?’ He croaked, ‘El Tigré . . . He’s staying with a whore in Concordia down by El Paso. I saw him in an El Paso cantina last night. I was minding my own business just having a little tequila, when he recognized me about the same time I saw him. He walked over, and just stared at me. I stared back. I was ready to trade shots with him or use my hands to defend myself, when he drew his pistola. Ayeeeee, Alberto, he was a lot faster than me. My pistola never got out of the holster.’ ”

  I said, “Daddy, was José that slow or El Tigré that fast?”

  Daddy looked over his shoulder at me and grinned. “That’s a good question, Henry. I’d say José was about as fast I am.” I could only shake my head and say, “Then El Tigré was mighty fast.”

  Daddy nodded and continued. “José said, ‘El Tigré just stood staring at me and pointing that cocked pistola at my guts. He started to grin as I stood there with the sweat running down my face waiting to die. He let the hammer down, and, before I could move, like a striking snake he swung the pistola hard sideways and broke my arm. Then on the upswing he smashed it across my face while the good-for-nothing Mexican crowd just stood there and watched him. Everyone, they are afraid to cross him. It was quiet as a grave in that place. I remember the silence. It roared in my ears as I heard him grunt to use his strength to swing that pistola through the air. I tried to cover up against other swings but he beat me good.’ ”